


between the walls

by CountlessStars



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 20:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12895743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountlessStars/pseuds/CountlessStars
Summary: Eugene decides to paint his living room. It should be easy,it really should, but it doesn't go as planned (in more ways than one).





	between the walls

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the TV characters and all that.
> 
> I don't know, enjoy!

 

 

Eugene should have chosen a different color.

He's not even halfway through painting the walls of his living room, and he suddenly feels his chest tighten, the air barely passing through his throat.

_White_. Everything is white.

He tells himself it's just paint, but no matter how much he blinks, how blurry the room gets when he squeezes his eyes, he just sees snow.

The cold that isn't really there bites at his skin, crawls along his back. It's the middle of July and Eugene's teeth rattle and his hands shake like they hadn’t since he came home. He can almost see his breath coming out in puffs of steam. His bones hurt from the deeply burrowed chill, feeling brittle and ready to snap like twigs.

He sees splatters of dark red in the corners of his vision, shapeless and glistening, but when he turns his eyes, there's nothing there, nothing but white emptiness.

And he's alone, alone against the cold that suddenly breathes from every inch of the snow white walls. He feels death trailing one icy finger down the back of his neck. He can't open his mouth to make any sound, but it wouldn't make a difference—there's no one to hear him.

In Europe, he wasn't alone. Even during the coldest nights, when death fell from the sky like snowflakes, he wasn't alone. There were other men, men he could count on, who faced the cold and the death with him. Who pulled him out of his foxhole, brought him coffee, shared their last cigarette. Spina. Lipton. Luz. Winters. Heffron.

Something heavy twist in Eugene's chest, sharp and uneasy.

Edward Heffron.

_Babe._  

Eugene's whole body is shaking, even though the cold isn't real. He hunches his shoulders instinctively, ducks his head to protect himself from the threats that aren't really there.

There's a noise behind Eugene, barely loud enough to hear, easy to dismiss as a whisper of wind. But something, a barely-there nagging at the back of his mind, makes Eugene turn and look anyway.

The paintbrush slides from Eugene's fingers, drops onto the newspaper-covered floor with a loud clatter.

And Eugene suddenly knows he must have lost it completely, because he sees Babe right in the middle of the room, hair just as red as he remembers, skin just as pale. He blinks, tries to force the ghost away. Maybe Eugene is just dreaming. Maybe he's locked up in an asylum. Maybe he's still in Europe, asleep in a foxhole, and this is just an illusion, a surreal dream brought on by his exhaustion.

The vision of Babe smiles nervously, shuffling feet and twitching hands, and Eugene's heart clenches. He shouldn't keep looking, he should turn his back and let the phantom of his past disappear. But he can't, _can’t_.

“Heffron?” Eugene hears himself ask. The name doesn't come out quite right, even though his lips don't feel numb with cold anymore.

“The front door was open,” Babe says, shrugging. Eugene hears the words and can't make any sense of them.

He is wearing a light blue shirt. It's the color of the sky outside, beyond the white walls, and Eugene's world shakes in its foundations because he's never seen Babe out of the uniform. Eugene blinks again and Babe still doesn't disappear. He is still standing right in front of Eugene—and it has to be real because Eugene could never think of something so right, so wonderful.

Slowly, the world shifts back into place. There's no snow, just drying walls and the suffocating heat of the early afternoon. The wetness on his hands is paint, not blood of his friends. The icy air is just a warm breeze across the room. He's home, not in some godforsaken foxhole in frozen Europe. And he isn't alone.

“Babe,” he says, because that's the only word going through his mind, over and over.

Babe smiles widely and steps closer. He extends his hand and when Eugene touches it, he still half expects him to fade away into thin air. But Babe's hand is warm and solid and incredibly real.

“Wh-what are you...” Eugene begins, then takes a shaky breath, attempts to makes sense of all the thoughts whirling through his brain.

Babe seems unfazed by Eugene's confusion. He's still holding Eugene's hand when he speaks. “I thought I'd visit an old friend. Shoulda probably called first, but...you know.” He smiles and squeezes Eugene's hand lightly before letting go.

Eugene just stares as Babe takes a small step back and looks around the room. “I see you've been busy,” he nods, eyeing the half-painted walls. “Lovely house.” He grins at Eugene and the corners of his eyes crinkle a little. Eugene has never seen him smile like that. Like there was nothing wrong in the world.

Eugene tries to reply, but the words die on his tongue. Babe doesn't seem to mind—his smile grows just a little wider and Eugene can't look away. Babe's eyes are warm when they meet his gaze, and the hot July air wraps around Eugene a little tighter. His breaths are shallow, barely reaching his lungs. He feels like no matter what happens next, it might just kill him.

“You've got a bit of paint...here,” Babe says and steps closer. Without any hesitation, he reaches out and touches Eugene's face.

It's a feather-light touch, just a brush of fingertips against his cheek, but it sends Eugene's blood boiling all the same. His heart is thumping loudly in his ears and he's too far gone to notice anything but Babe's fingers sliding gently across his skin.

Babe drops his hand and surprisingly violent disappointment claws at Eugene's stomach, anger bubbling in his chest for a fraction of a second. Then Babe's hand settles on his shoulder and the bitter feeling is gone, replaced by strange relief.

Babe's hand rests lightly on his shoulder, but Eugene feels like he couldn't shake it off even if he wanted to. He's frozen again, not with sharp cold, but with something else, something bright and warm and terrifyingly familiar.

“Gene,” Babe whispers. Eugene feels his own name in a warm huff of air across his face. He doesn't know when they got so close. Babe exhales and Eugene breathes in, the warmth of the air setting his lungs on fire. He feels lightheaded, dizzy with the weight of Babe's touch on his shoulder, with the way his own heartbeat reverberates through his whole body.

Eugene doesn't know how long they have been standing there. It could be seconds or hours, but he can't find the strength to look away from Babe's face. There could be a grenade going off in the room and he wouldn't move an inch.

Babe moves his hand until his thumb brushes the sliver of skin just above the collar of Eugene's shirt. It's barely even a touch, but Eugene's heart threatens to leap out of his chest. And Babe must feel Eugene's heartbeat because he presses down right at the pulse point, making Eugene's mouth drop open.

“ _Gene_ ,” Babe says again. They are close enough that Eugene sees freckles scattered across Babe's nose. Close enough that he sees Babe's gaze drop to his mouth. Close enough that the distance between them grows smaller with every second.

Babe blinks and his lips curl in a smile that's only barely there. Eugene only sees it because he's too close to look anywhere but at Babe's lips.

Some distant part of Eugene's mind is counting every best of his own heart, every breath that fills the small space between them, rushed and precise like the seconds on a clock. He counts until, in between two heartbeats, Babe leans in, closes the final distance between them and then—and then the time stops completely.

Babe's lips press against his own and Eugene's world is reduced to that single point of contact, everything else pushed into the background.

He is frozen for a moment, the feeling of Babe's mouth on his almost making his heart stop. Then Babe moves his lips ever so slightly, his hands finding place on Eugene's waist, and Eugene loses even the last semblance of control he’s had.

His hands are still covered in paint, he remembers distantly, but he can't stop himself from tangling them into Babe's hair and dragging him even closer—feeling like it's still not close enough. Babe gasps into his mouth and Eugene doesn't resist the overwhelming need to pull at his hair again.

When he feels Babe's tongue trace a wet line along his lips, Eugene's knees almost buckle, but Babe's hands settle on his waist and hold him firmly in place. One of Babe's hands slides down until it reaches the place where Eugene's shirt has ridden up a little. His fingers are warm, but the patterns they trace on Eugene's skin are burning like fire, like the marks they make will stay there forever.

A shaky gasp escapes Eugene's mouth when Babe wraps his arms around him and pulls their bodies together. He only realizes Babe is pushing him backwards when his back hits the wall with a thud. He feels the wet paint seep through the back of his shirt, ice cold and unpleasant against his burning body, but he can't bring himself to care—not when Babe's hands find his hips and grip tightly, almost painfully.

He's hard, probably has been since Babe touched his face, but now, with Babe's body pressed so closely against him, he can't ignore it any longer. Eugene moves his hips in one slow, careful motion and his legs almost give up underneath him when he feels Babe's whole body shudder.

His hands move on their own then, untucking Babe's shirt roughly and sliding across the hot skin underneath. It's damp where Eugene touches it—whether it's from sweat or the paint on Eugene's fingers, he can't tell. He feels every breath Babe takes under his hands, feels him gasp when their hips meet again. He traces the lines of Babe's ribs, splays his fingers as wide as he can, and it's still _not enough_.

Babe shifts slightly and nudges Eugene's legs apart with his knee. Eugene can do nothing but gasp incoherently when a thigh slides between his own, warm and solid and perfect. Babe presses forward and Eugene's eyes flutter closed, stars exploding behind his eyelids.

Babe's hands grip tighter, pressing into his skin in a way that would be painful under any other circumstances, but now isn't nearly enough. Eugene lets out a moan, breathy and surprisingly loud, and he feels the rhythm of Babe's moves falter. Babe's fingertips dig into his hips and he lets his head drop to Eugene's shoulder.

He's whispering something under his breath, something too quiet for Eugene to understand. As their movements grow quicker, more frantic and uncoordinated, Babe's words turn into soft gasps, damp and hot against Eugene's neck. Eugene lets himself get lost in that feeling, lets it reach every single nerve ending in his body.

“Babe,” he pleads, breath caught somewhere between his ribs. “Babe,” he repeats, because that's the only thing that makes sense, only thing that matters.

“Gene,” Babe moans into his skin and that's all it takes for Eugene to fall apart. He closes his eyes and sees white, entirely unlike the snow or the walls. His body shakes with his release and Eugene thinks it's only Babe's warm hands that hold him together in one piece, keep him from shattering into a thousand pieces.

He slides his fingers across every part of Babe's body that's in his reach, holds onto him as Babe grinds against Eugene's hip for a few more seconds before letting out a small gasp that is unlike anything Eugene has ever heard in his life. Babe's whole body tenses under Eugene's touch and the feeling makes Eugene's insides twist with something warm and so intense it's almost terrifying.

Babe sighs and lets his head drop to Eugene's shoulder. “Well,” he breathes out, the warm puff of air tickling Eugene's neck.

“Yeah,” Eugene agrees and suddenly feels very lightheaded. His legs are shaking, ready to give up, but Babe's hands are still wrapped around him, so he holds still for a little longer.

After a minute—that lasts both an eternity and not nearly enough—Babe presses his lips against Eugene's neck in a not-quite kiss and takes a step back.

“I think,” Babe says, eyes jumping from Eugene to the wall behind him, “I think you'll need to paint that again.”

Eugene snorts lightly and watches as the pink of Babe's cheeks turns into a bright red, even as he fights the smile tugging at his lips. And Eugene would look at the wall and assess the damage, but he finds he can't quite tear his eyes away from Babe.

There are streaks of paint all over Babe's body and for a second, it doesn't make any sense. Then, with a fire suddenly roaring inside him, Eugene realizes—he sees his every fingerprint on Babe. The paint from Eugene's hands is lining Babe's jaw, sticking to his hair. Eugene's white touches are strewn across Babe's cheeks and neck, disappearing underneath his rumpled shirt. There's a smudge of white lining Babe's bottom lip.

Eugene has never seen anything more breathtaking.

He reaches up with a trembling hand, puts his fingers on the white marks, feels the heat of Babe's cheeks. Babe's eyelids flutter and he lets out a soft sigh. His lips curl into an almost-smile.

“It's good to see you,” Eugene says and for the moment, that's quite enough.

 

 


End file.
